Blood of Cain

15

When I stepped over the ladder onto Jupiter’s cockpit, Max was there to greet me. “Hi, little lady. Were you the captain of this ol’ boat while I was ashore?” She sat and cocked her head, brown eyes bright. “Kim sent a piece of pompano for you.” I held up the Ziploc baggie with the small piece of cooked fish and Max moved her tail like a maestro’s baton. She followed me inside the salon where I set the warm fish in her bowl. Three gulps, gone. “Let’s head to the bridge to catch some air.”

I tucked Max under one arm and climbed the steps to the fly bridge. I sat in the captain’s chair and thought about the call I was about to make. I thought more about the message Courtney Burke left. ‘Maybe you could like tell that detective, the one who knows you, Detective Grant, maybe you could tell him for me. Thank you … something else … never mind, it’s not important. Bye.’

I hit the dial button to Detective Dan Grant. As he answered, I could hear the heightened communications coming from police radios and the blare of carnival music in the background. “Dan, Courtney Burke left a message on my phone. She said a guy by the name of Bandini ordered the hit on the victim. I don’t know who he is, but—”

“Was.”

“What?”

“He’s dead.”

“How?”

“Shot through the neck. Witnesses say Courtney Burke was seen going into Tony Bandini’s trailer just before the shooting.”

“Where is she?”

“I’ll tell you where she’s not, that’s here at the carnival. Gone, baby, gone. But somebody who just arrived is Carlos Bandini, brother of deceased. I hope we find Burke before he does.”

“What if Courtney is taking the fall for a hit?”

“Her prints are on the murder weapon.”

“That means she was at the crime scene. But it doesn’t prove she shoved the ice pick into the vic’s heart”

“Look, Sean, now I have another murder to investigate. Gotta go. But I want to leave you with a piece of advice: this crazy chick’s a serial killer. And now she’s on the run, packin’ a pistol and a hard-on for any man who gets in her way. That would include you. If she shows up again at your boat or cabin, let’s hope you’re faster than she is, pal. This is gonna be one fuckin’ long damn night around here.” He disconnected.

I looked at Max, who sat on the bench seat behind the captain’s chair. She watched the boat traffic in Ponce Marina, her dark eyes reflecting the lights from the mast of a sailboat entering the harbor. The tide was rising, Jupiter rocking slightly, the ropes groaning like a nautical snore. I glanced down at the phone in my hand, scrolled to Courtney’s message, and hit the redial button. It rang five times before a beep came on indicating the call had entered voice-message mode. No instructions to leave a message after the beep. Just the beep. “This is Sean O’Brien trying to reach Courtney Burke. Courtney called me earlier tonight from this number, and I wanted to return her call. Thank you.” I disconnected and wondered whose phone I’d left the message on, and whether Detective Dan Grant was right about Courtney Burke.

“Sean, how about a nightcap?” Dave Collins crossed the dock from his boat, Gibraltar and stood near Jupiter’s cockpit holding two glass mugs in his one hand. He stepped over the transom steps and looked up at me.

“Maybe later. Max and I are just enjoying the night air.”

“Hells bells, you might want a cocktail now. I just saw a live TV news report from the county fairgrounds. Place looks like a circus, no pun intended. There’s been a shooting. It’s Courtney Burke, Sean. Police believe she shot a guy through the neck. Another damn murder.”

“Maybe it was self-defense.”

Dave climbed the steps to the bridge, petted Max, lowered his big frame onto the bench-seat and set one mug on the small table. He released a heavy sigh and said, “It certainly could have been self-defense, but according to the news, she didn’t stick around long enough to tell that to the police.”

“Detective Dan Grant feels the same way.”

“You spoke with him?”

“Just a couple of minutes ago. He said witnesses saw her going into the office, the trailer of the guy who owns or co-owns the carnival with his brother. Their last name is Bandini.”

Dave nodded and sipped from a sweating mug, the ice tinkling against the glass. “I saw video of the surviving brother. The guy looks more like he’s Tony Soprano’s brother. In his sound bite he said if the police can’t find the killer of his brother, he will. The news reports are saying that the girl is MIA. If it was self-defense, why run?”

“Maybe she panicked.”

“She was composed enough to not leave the weapon behind. According to the news reports, police haven’t found the gun. That didn’t happen in the first murder.”

I said nothing, the only sounds coming from the lapping of water around the dock pilings and a sailing halyard tapping against the mast of a sailboat.

Dave sipped his cocktail. “What are you thinking? I’ve seen that look on your face too many times. Leave it be, Sean. Police are focusing heavy on this one. It has serial killer written on it like graffiti on a wall of shame.”

“Dan Grant said a report indicates that Courtney Burke spent time in a mental institution. More than once.”

“I assume she didn’t self-commit, so it begs the question: who wanted her locked up and why? Was it ordered by a judge — maybe from recommendations by child services or foster care? Or was it her family? What did she do?”

“What if she didn’t do anything? Maybe that was part of the problem. She could have been helpless and victimized. Or traumatized from witnessing something horrific as a child.”

“Reached her breaking point?”

“For a child who has been sexually abused, it’s often a layered breaking point. Created from a series of horrendous layers of physical damage to the body coupled by the most painful — emotional damage to the human spirit. It’s the scar left from a branding iron to the soul, and the mark doesn’t fade like a cheap tattoo. What kind of therapy completely erases the fallout from that? Did she get help in an asylum … or did locking her up in a psych ward add more layers?”

Dave scratched Max behind her ears. “Maybe all of your speculation is true. But we don’t know that. We do know that since you found that young woman walking near a remote highway in the dead of night, there’s been a second murder—”

“There’s been a second killing. Murder isn’t an act of self-defense.”

“Do you really believe that, Sean? Or are you trying to come to grips with the sad fact that a pretty young woman can be a lethal killer?”

As I started to answer Dave’s question, my cell rang, the call coming from the same number Courtney had used to call me. I answered and a falsetto voice of a man said, “Mr. O’Brien, my name is Isaac Solminski. It was my phone that you called.”

“Who are you?”

“Courtney’s friend.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you calling from the carnival?”

“Yes, and she’s gone. Police are here.”

“Do you know what happened? Why’d she run?”

“Feared for her life. Courtney was about to be raped. She told me that she took the money owed to her after Tony Bandini tried to force himself on her. They wrestled for the gun. It went off and he was killed.”

“Did you tell that to the police?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure they’re buying the story. I’m just a carny, in their eyes not very credible. Since there was no eye-witness, it looks to me like they believe she stole money from Bandini and killed him.”

“Did they tell you that?”

“No, but I overheard the cops talking right outside my trailer.”

“Speak with Detective Dan Grant. He’s African-American, probably the lead detective. Tell him what Courtney told you.”

“I did. He’s a better listener than the others, but I can tell he’s just as skeptical. Mr. O’Brien, Courtney said if you called to give you a message.”

“What message?”

“She wants to know if you have a birthmark on your left shoulder.”

I said nothing. I knew I was wearing a shirt each time I spoke with Courtney, the night I found her, and then on Jupiter. My heart beat faster.

“Are you there, Mr. O’Brien?”

“Yes.”

“She said she believes you might have a small birthmark on your left shoulder that resembles a four-leaf clover, or an Irish shamrock. Do you, Mr. O’Brien?”

For a long moment I didn’t want to answer, the question too invasive. My personal space in some way now violated. I knew the girl hadn’t seen my shoulder. How did she know? Who’d she know that knew me that well? Think.

“Mr. O’Brien, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“I assume Courtney was right, you have a small birthmark resembling the shamrock?”

“Yes.”

“She said one other thing … if you do have this mark on your left shoulder, you are related to her. She didn’t say how. Could you be her father?”